Welcome to Susan’sblog. This is a catchup which whizzes you (like we have been whizzed) across the world and to western Scotland but still only gets you to April 6th! Reading it now we seem very much like innocents abroad and perforce are wiser now. Those of you who are seasoned travelers can read this with either patronising pity or nostalgia – you choose.
It was always ambitious to get from New Zealand to Manchester in what seemed like less than 19 hours; actually 31. Even so, being whizzed across continents that quickly has to do violence to the body clock. It did. We were well looked after by our airline, but Dubai was mind blowing. Later we worked out the two planes we were travelling from and to stood only about 300 metres apart but at adjacent terminals. We were, however, ‘due to the late arrival of our aircraft’ taken at a fast clip by a speeding bullet of a diminutive hostess through a stupendously ornate contemporary terminal with hardly a second to grasp what was passing the eyes. A dazed impression of panic, glass, people, double length escalators, signs and announcements, a fountain or two, ascending and descending, (it seemed from and to the same floor where we had just been) is all that remains of what must be an amazing structure. 1 kilometre of walking, 1 kilometre’s journey in an underground train to get 300 metres! Then back into oneself as the whole planeload of people watch your arrival – we were the ones an entire airbus 380 had waited for! The flight was a glitzy, surreal experience, looking back; wall to wall films available on the TV screen on the back of the seat in front; 1400 channels. Travelling from New Zealand to the United Kingdom you didn’t need to leave Hollywood for a moment.
Northern England proved extremely cold. Snow still lay in the lee of drystone walls and hedgerows; frosts still a daily occurrence. But, brave snowdrops had already come and gone and daffodils were slowly opening. Some catching up with routine matters was necessary– a broken watch strap, shampoo, (my favourite brand!). Was there lacto-free milk in Britain? (yes). Other impressions are: beautiful British art and craft work as expensive as the really good artwork in New Zealand; shops which looked like rows of houses so it was hard to spot where the houses started or shops began. Small twisting country roads were as mind blowing as the circles we had turned in the Dubai terminal though for different reasons. The placement of villages, hamlets and individual houses and farms seemed to defy New Zealand logic, though it is amazing how quickly the different arrangement began to make sense.
Blackpool is what they say it is – a decaying seaside town, though working on pulling itself up by the bootstraps and maybe, as carbon miles begin to haunt people’s consciences, the British seaside town will have its day again. In some ways the streetscapes are depressing in the poorer or lower middle class areas, but when the houses are detached from each other and set in gardens they are charming in a way few NZ houses can match. So many scenes, including thatched cottages surrounding the village green complete with duckpond, seem to be like movie sets waiting for the director and cast to arrive. Sometimes I catch myself wondering when they will dismantle today’s set and go back to ordinary life.
Lancaster, (braved on what was apparently the coldest British April day for 20 years), with castle and priory church towering over the city, has the curving medieval streets of ancient England, another kind of England. The priory church has a celebration of the ordination of women planned shortly and news in a diocesan newsletter announces the bishop-elect will ordain women deacons and priests unlike his predecessor. So in this church, sited on the position of a Roman fort, contemporary issues are alive and well. There is a lovely atmosphere of quietness and a sense of prayer having been offered here for centuries. I had not known that Lancaster was as close to the sea as it is and that its port participated in the infamous trade/slave triangle, taking goods to Africa, then transporting slaves to America via the Caribbean where spices and cotton were also on loaded. Lancaster was in fact, the fourth biggest slave trading port in Britain. Like Blackpool however, the cotton trade diminished as surely as did the British family seaside holiday and Lancaster has had to look to other activities
There is talk of the Duke of Westminster’s estates and of other landed gentry employing people in the area, also of the Queen who is the Duke of Lancaster as part of her gift as sovereign. I’m struck by the lively and alive interest in the royal family. Considering they come up in New Zealand conversations why would they not here, I suppose. Maybe I thought they would be more taken for granted.
As we went through more countryside later in our travels I could see that for the no- aristocratic Brit, there are continual reminders of class. Every 20 miles or so one passes the manor house or stately home, or country seat, signified by advertisements of when the house and/or gardens are open but also by long high drystone walls kept in good condition. (still keeping the plebs out and the game in). The actual houses with a few exceptions are miles from the road and invisible to the passerby.
Then Saturday comes and we entrain at Lancaster for Glasgow, Oban and Iona. This is our chance to use our first class Britrail pass and the conductor is helpful, though the service is mainly based on pre-packaged buns, muesli bars, cup-o-porridge and the same good morning pack for breakfast and morning tea. The scenery is fascinating. Trees are still very bare with only a hint of green here and there. We are grateful for our map as we discover signs on railway stations are placed for those coming to the station not those travelling through them! (probably true in New Zealand too!) At the highest point between England and Glasgow, tremendous wind farms people hills which are still sparsely covered with snow, appearing and re-appearing in the mist which clings to the high ground.
The width and breadth of Glasgow amazes us, including the groups of two and three high-rise apartment blocks which erupt at irregular intervals out of lower suburbs. Their architecture varies but not beautifully. Both sides of the city centre, we will find, they punctuate the urban landscape like official exclamation marks.
Glasgow Central railway station is a bustling metropolis all itself, with ye olde wooden facades to the shops, covered by steel girdered glass roofing. People flow purposefully to and fro, announcements echo around the cavernous space. We have time and decide to leave our luggage in a left luggage locker and explore unencumbered. Fatefully, we decide to do this at Queen St station from where the Oban train will leave, only to find when we get there that the left luggage area is being refurbished! So we retrace our steps. Our bags are thoroughly x-rayed and examined before the man will accept the responsibility. Precious time having been taken up, a good look at George Square is the best we can do. A demonstration is forming against the criminalisation of football fans. I find out later than a new law is being framed which will prevent football fans from chanting even when the chant is not xenophobic or racist. It is obvious that the different groups of fans gathering for the 12 noon demo are cautious and approach the square with care.
The train to Oban has three parts, one destined for Mallaig and another for Fort William. For Oban, one takes a seat in one of the first two carriages. I am glad we have reserved our seats. Locals and tourists are easy to tell apart. The locals have brought books and booze to while away what must be an over familiar journey. Tourists are checking maps and guide books and taking photos. Travelling alongside Glasgow harbour and several sea lochs and land-locked lochs is an unexpected pleasure especially when one turns out to be the top end of Loch Lomond.
The treescape changes with more evergreen larches, pines and spruce mixed in with the deciduous trees we had seen further south. More snow on the hills, Ben Lomond and Ben More looking very impressive. Having shrugged off the Maillag and Fort Williams parts of the train, we are over another divide and running down to the sea, twisting and turning until we creep up on Oban from behind. The houses are small, whitewashed stone, standing stoically apart or huddling together in terraced rows. The harbour is small and seems friendly though dominated by the contemporary Caledonian MacByrne ferry terminal. Looking at the size of the facilities obviously built for larger crowds than the already considerable one gathered for our ferry, (the last of the day), I am glad we came now rather than in the height of the season.
A short 45 minute ferry ride changes to a longer bus ride through the island of Mull which is absolutely fascinating. The road is cleanly asphalted but only one way with frequent passing bays, though the chance of actually being at a passing bay when another vehicle comes into sight is variable. The land is dry. It seems barren though the occasional sheep and cattle are present, some sheep with small lambs at foot, a contrast to further south in Lancashire where we were told animals were still being wintered over in barns because it was thought too cold for them to be outside as yet! The road winds its way around and through valleys which seems to go on forever considering Mull is an island but each turn seems to bring a view that is not unlike the rough rocky landscape of Central Otago and yet is distinctively different. As you watch the browns and greens, the grey of slate and water, tan coloured highland cattle and light brown bracken, the subdued colours of highland tweed make more sense. The countryside looks like a bolt of tweed suiting flung across the landscape. Some more contemporary yet still stone houses are here – are they holiday homes or new arrivals in the district?
We arrive in Fionnphort and as our bus which seems over sized for the size of the town,stops in front of a scattering of small houses, perhaps a dozen in total, I wonder about the residents. Do they welcome the ubiquitous visitors or resent them? There isn’t time to think too much about this, looking up, I see the Iona ferry backing into the slipway and must grab the backpack. Looking up still further am amazed to see quite clearly the abbey of Iona just across the short stretch of water.
Next post: Community on and around Iona
I don’t have a lot of pics but will study how to attach them to a blog when I can!
Susan
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